


Times Gone By

by macabreflorence



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2012-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-22 18:55:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/613118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/macabreflorence/pseuds/macabreflorence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles' father dies on New Year's Day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Times Gone By

**Author's Note:**

> Because I'm a horrible person who cheats at Monopoly and ruins holidays with deathfic.

It's fast, chaotic, and in all its hopelessness, somehow beautiful.

Stiles is drowning. He can hear the sounds of the world surrounding him, but they're muffled and distant, like echoes from somewhere far away, traces of someone else's life, someone else's moments. The frantic beep of the monitors, the sharp-edged words of the nurses, someone choked cries. They might be his own. Stiles can feel something sticky and warm trickling down his arms, and when he lifts his fingers, all he can see is red. So, so much red.

It's nothing like mom. She withered away slowly, painfully and agonizingly, every shade of her shadow disappearing when he wasn't looking. She still had a smile on her lips when they closed her casket softly, the cold clank of the wood way too loud in the empty church. This time around it's different, seconds flying by him in a flash and the weak grasp of shock still around his neck, suffocating him with every breath. He's in a daze, his glassy eyes seeing nothing and still everything at the same time; a part of him hasn't understood it yet, wordlessly staring at the scene in front of him.

A domestic house call, they tell him. No one had seen it coming; when the husband had reached for his gun, they didn't have time to react. It took only a finger on a trigger, one swift movement, and now Stiles' father is lying on a hospital bed, holes in his chest and warm blood escaping from his wounds. They're trying to revive him, rushing around him with their white coats and panicked faces, but he already looks dead, limbs sprawled and eyes half-lidded.

Someone grabs Stiles' shoulder and calls his name. It may be Scott, might be Derek. He doesn't turn to look, doesn't blink an eye. The grip on him loosens slowly and becomes only a light touch, all fingertips and concerned skin. He hears his name again, this time softly and quietly, and feels another hand on his side. He wishes he could be numb.

The beeping monitors reach a high-pitched fermata, resonating for a few seconds and creating a chord Stiles will remember for the rest of his life, a sound that will keep him awake for years, haunt his dreams and nightmares. And then, without a warning, their noises suddenly disappear. Only the steady line of the heart monitor is left in the room, its low note making the nurses come to a halt. It's abruptly quiet, and Stiles feels a rush in his ears, like something is pulling him back to the surface. He gasps for air even though the water in his lungs is only imaginary, and feels his legs give in slightly. The arm around him steadies him, but he still can't breathe.

There are loud noises coming from outside, like guns being fired off all at once. It takes Stiles a few seconds to realize they're fireworks, filling the crisp winter air with their joyful racket. His father's pale skin is painted with light, bright colors, his eyelashes throwing long shadows on his cheeks and the blood on his skin blending in with the green and purple bursts of fire. Stiles can't see them, but he knows the nurses and doctors are exchanging knowing glances, nodding to each other like they're having a silent conversation.

Someone steps forward, looks at the clock with a heavy gaze.  
"Time of death 00:01."  
The new year begins with shallow, uneven breaths and the sound of a small boy's heart breaking and burning.

John Stilinski is buried with his eyes open.


End file.
